


To the Victor the Spoils

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dark Will Graham, M/M, Post-Canon, season 4, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 23:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9791936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: A quiet moment following their first kill after the Great Red Dragon, as Will tends to Hannibal's wounds and faces the changes he's undergone in the past months...





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [thesmartbluebox](http://thesmartbluebox.tumblr.com/) as a very late gift to the Hannigram Holiday Exchange. They wanted Dark!Will, the aesthetics of the show, and the differences in their lifestyles, and I tried to blend that all together in this scene. I'm so sorry you had to wait such a long while for this--I hope you enjoy it!

The heavens are an aging bruise on the drive home. Pale ivory blue sky mottled in swollen plum and steel shadowed clouds. Will takes all the curves too fast, cresting every hill with enough speed to make his stomach drop. Sickly light brims over the mountain line and tumbles through the dips, dazzles over the surface of the lake, and caresses the gentle rise of the valley. 

Backlit and cast in black, the cypress and juniper trees demarking the edge of their property bend and sway with the cloak of night still clinging to spindling needles. Their very own Greek chorus, blank-faced and observant, and the wild wind of the impending storm cuts through them with a riotous roar of judgement. 

In juxtaposition, the home is startlingly still and silent when the door falls closed behind them. The scent of petrichor turns coppery on the stale air, mingled sweat and blood over the lingering traces of the fine cologne Hannibal had purchased for Will and insisted he wear. Musk with ambergris, cashmere, and vetiver. Pretentious, Will isn’t going to argue that point, but oddly comforting, with the salty hints of ocean water and the soothing cool mint. 

Wind-chilled skin prickles with sweat, and Will sheds his jacket on the way through the foyer. He hisses at the movement; it pulls at the muscles of his shoulder and upper back, the old hurt, that knotty-stiff pain at the join of bursa and tendon. “Fuck.” He needs a drink, even with the malbec they shared over dinner burning acidic in the back of his throat, and winds his way into the kitchen.

Hannibal trails behind him. His normal gait has been interrupted by a limp, and Will’s weary mind finds patterns in the shuffling thud of his tread on the runner in the hall. So wrapped up in it that he feels a dip in his stomach like missing the last step at the landing of a stairway when Hannibal stops on the threshold. “You should allow me to tend to your wounds.”

It’s too dark to properly see and they’ve not been here long enough for Will to grow familiar with the lay of the land. When he turns on the light, Will lurches in place. Too bright, too brassy. Will puts up no fight when Hannibal comes to stand next to him, wind-chafed palm against his cheek, angling Will’s face up and to the side for Hannibal to survey the damage.

“It’s just a scratch, Hannibal,” Will manages, mouth arid and throat sticking closed. 

_Drink, right_. He reaches past Hannibal’s shoulder for the cabinet above the stove and fingers grasping and closing around smooth, cool glass, pulling down the first bottle within reach. Snorts in amusement to see Hannibal’s fancy scotch, and unscrews the lid, not even bothering with a glass.

Hannibal’s touch is delicate fluttering over the skin just alongside the scratches in question. A faint counterpressure as Will’s throat works around a long pull of the scotch. There’s no diagnostic value to the examination. Will knows it for it what it is, and so he allows it.

“I somehow question your ability to appropriately savour my scotch whilst chugging it,” Hannibal mutters.

Will takes another hasty swallow just to make a point, and winces as it sears down into his chest. “So what you’re saying is that I shouldn’t pour it over our wounds.”

Hannibal gives him a quelling look, brow twitching as if uncertain whether to show his amusement or not. “Why you would want to when we have plenty of disinfectants and antibiotics in our extraordinarily well-stocked medicine cabinet, I’m not sure…”

“Anyway I’m not drinking to savour it,” Will says. “Maybe try buying something that doesn’t cost a small fortune next time.” 

He shrugs away from Hannibal’s gentle probing, putting some space between them to take Hannibal in from head to toe. The crimson spread of blood isn’t visible on his tuxedo pants, but it’s created a slick sheen on the fabric still slowly expanding even now. Will lifts the edge of Hannibal’s jacket and peels it back from his ivory shirt. The blood on on his side there has left the shirt stiff as it dried.

“I’m more worried about this.”

Hannibal is silent under Will’s ministrations, as he works free the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, but when Will flicks his gaze to Hannibal’s face, his expression speaks to the level of discomfort he feels. To show any sign at all in the narrowing of his eyes and the thin press of his lips turned white, the pain must be substantial. When the last button comes free and Will parts the halves, he can see why--the entire left half of Hannibal’s abdomen is covered in a livid red bruise, interrupted only by the darker, rusty red of the puncture wound. 

Will takes another mouthful of the scotch, briefly entertaining the idea of offering some to Hannibal, and knowing full well he’ll turn it down. Instead he sets it aside to lay his hand against Hannibal’s uninjured side to steady himself as he leans in for closer inspection.

“It didn’t hit anything vital,” Hannibal says. His body is one long, tight line, stomach subconsciously sucked in to avoid Will’s touch, though it ghosts above the skin. “Though a stitch or two wouldn’t go amiss.”

It’s too tempting, Will can’t resist the smirk tugging at his lips, or the soft give of the flesh beneath his left hand when he squeezes, whole and unharmed. Hannibal takes excellent care of himself, but the inevitability of time still shows itself on his body in those places. “Good thing you’ve been indulging me with all that rich southern cuisine,” he teases.

Despite all the aches and pains, the gentleness of his tone reels Hannibal in, and Will tilts his face upward to meet him. Just the barest pressure of Hannibal’s lips on his own, dry and flaking, catching together in a way that’s not entirely pleasant but nonetheless reassuring. 

Will loses himself in that brief touch, pushing aside the strain of his muscles and the stinging throb in his neck, the sharp spur digging into his shoulder. Focusing all of his attention instead on the places their bodies meet--the supple warmth of Hannibal’s love handle warm against his palm, and the promise in the slight part of his lips, breath moist on Will’s mouth, of something wetter and lusher to follow. 

Hannibal retreats too soon, and Will is momentarily bereft without his grounding touch. Too tired, too out of sorts, still wound in the sticky web of conflicting emotions and motivations resultant of the evening’s activities. Will was disarmed, not only by the act itself, after their months of isolation from the outside world, but his own reaction to it. How easy to give into those darker impulses, after a lifetime of denial. 

To allow himself not only to participate, but revel in the act. So fully immersed as to have become disengaged from reality, lost in that shadowy place in between. The click of hooves uneven on the pavement behind them, feather strokes painting the world only in shades of black and grey. And Hannibal moving less like a man and more like the liquid roll of fog, sweeping over that man not with implacable force, but with the inevitability of nature, wearing down all things with time. 

It was not the violence of their struggle for survival against the Dragon, but a tease of a dance. Allowing their victim to think he ever stood a chance against the two of them. Granting him the tearing of flesh and spilling of blood in exchange for growing bravado making it all the more satisfying in the end.

But now, no longer in the moment, Will finds it difficult to entertain all these mundane, worldly concerns. His body carries him through the motions, but his mind continues to drift back, again and again, to that liminal space. Blinking flickers of light and dark, the static of the television at two in the morning filtering over his vision. 

Sometimes it’s Hannibal he sees, flesh and blood with all the tenderness he feels for Will written clearly on his face. At other times that monster of his nightmares, that void of light, constructed of all things evil in the world, regarding Will with his empty, pitiless gaze. Will keeps waiting for the accompanying terror and revulsion, yet finds it is no longer there. Whether he is himself, or some strange beast created in his fever-soaked mind, it is the same. The thread of connection that binds them is unchanged. 

Will finds himself clinging to the stability that Hannibal provides, something both familiar from the early days of their relationship, yet in stringent opposition to his attitude towards Hannibal as of late, where the very idea of being in his presence was anathema. How quickly and entirely Will has come to rely on him again, as easy as slipping into the familiar routine of real life after returning from a long trip.

In the dim golden glow of the bathroom light, they undress. Will has grown accustomed to the fine clothing Hannibal dresses him in for their evenings out. Though it is not his preference, Will can still appreciate the aesthetics of the whole experience. The warm glide of wool against his skin. The silken, slippery slide of the satin trim beneath his fingers. 

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Will observes the image he cuts when Hannibal has him on display, beard kept close and tidy, his sculpted curls. He drags a hand back through his hair, enraptured briefly by the glints of peacock blue and green from the topaz on his wrists.

Behind him, Hannibal sheds last of his clothing, revealing the extent of the damage done. As with his side, the cut missed any major veins or arteries, but it’s not a pretty picture. The jagged edge of the blade left the flesh a torn, pulpy mess.

In their time together, Hannibal has always been the caregiver, especially after their encounter with the Dragon. Days bleeding into weeks spent in a muddled haze of pain and medication, how Hannibal had managed to deal with his own wounds at the time a mystery. It had been the first test of Will’s acceptance of their survival and cohabitation, to allow Hannibal to tend to his wounds with the memory of herb-infused marinades and the buzz of a bonesaw echoing through the chambers of his mind. 

Strange, to be the one giving rather than receiving, but fitting in this relationship. The constant shifting between them--of roles, of power. Hannibal showing his weakness as a sign of trust. Will kneels before him where he sits on the raised edge of the tub. 

He can’t help but recall Hannibal’s delicate touch on his hand, as they stood together in his kitchen what seems a million years ago now, as he traces his own hand now down Hannibal’s thigh. The sting of disinfectant, and blood blossoming tendrils through the water as he rinsed Will’s knuckles clean. There is far more blood now, quickly tinting the basin of water a pale pink run through with ribbons of red when Will rings out his cloth.

The whole room smells of blood and the nostril-stinging astringent of disinfectant. The mingling of discordant scents, the condition of Hannibal’s leg, along with Will’s own pain and exhaustion, triggers a wave of nausea. Too many memories associated with the sensory input, and none of them good. His stomach rebels against the scotch and Will has to swallow it back down when it rises in his gullet.

“Maybe next time you feel the urge to disembowel someone, we could do some recon first?” Will aims for levity, but it falls flat. “You never struck me as someone to go in unprepared.”

Hannibal hums, a vague, dreamy sound. Will glances up to meet drug-clouded eyes and a satisfied smile twisting Hannibal’s lips. “I’ll admit, it was a deviation from my usual methods, but he was being terribly rude to you, Will. Besides, I have such a tender nurse to care for me in the aftermath.”

Will snorts in laughter. Hannibal on pain medication is almost enough to make him forget his own discomfort. “I’m just saying, it would have been nice to know beforehand that he was carrying not one, not two, but three different blades.”

“You have to admit, it was a bit of an overkill, particularly in formalwear.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel underdressed without at least four weapons somewhere on my person,” Will mutters. 

He finishes cleaning the area and takes out the packet of sutures from the first aid kit, and eyes them dubiously. From observing Hannibal, he’s picked up a thing or two about wound care, still... “Hope you’re not expecting anything fancy from my stitching.” 

Hannibal says nothing, merely watching from behind heavy lids, head tipped against the tile backsplash. Will returns his attention to the task at hand. After working in silence for several minutes, he gets into the rhythm. Despite his words, it’s not all that different from how he ties is flies. The painstaking care put into every last detail. It’s similarly absorbing, allowing him to dissociate. His body, held tight with stress for too long, begins to relax at last.

When Hannibal’s fingers press against his cheek and he hears his name, Will comes back to himself, and wonders how many times Hannibal said it before Will noticed. The stitches are as well-spaced and even as they can be, given the nature of the wound. He spreads silvadene over the area before bandaging it.

The muscles of his thighs and back protest when Will rises to his feet, and the room spins for a minute. “Up. Time for your side.”

Hannibal stands obediently, a hand on Will’s shoulder for balance. “Did you mean what you said?” he asks.

Will doesn’t need to ask for clarification on what Hannibal is referring to. As off-the-cuff as his statement had been, there is no use in denying the truth of it to himself, or Hannibal. Still, there are conditions. Beyond preparedness, Will simply doesn’t share Hannibal’s opinion of who is deserving of their wrath. That can be discussed at a later point in time, however, when Will has had the chance to process all the changes he’s undergone these last few months. What he is willing to compromise and what lines he will not cross. Rapidly, those lines are fading into nothingness.

So he says, simply, “Yes,” and leaves it at that. The answer is enough for satisfy Hannibal for the time. His pleasure is a physical presence alongside the two of them in the bathroom, buffeting against Will as he sews the five stitches necessary to close the wound on Hannibal’s side. It tugs a smirk from his lips, has him leaning in to press a kiss to the bandage he places atop it. 

At first, Will considers how out of character a gesture it is for him, giving into impulse. But then, after all, isn’t this what this whole experiment between them has been about, from the start? Hannibal driving him to embrace his nature and indulge in his desires. He looks up to Hannibal. Once upon a time, being seen by him as Will saw others was disquieting. Now he’s takes pleasure in the way it makes him feel.

“Yes,” Will says again, “I want to.” And he does, to feel that pleasure singing through his veins again, with Hannibal at his side. His eyes flutter shut at the touch of Hannibal’s finger against his cheek. Tracing the shape of a curl that rests there. Will gives into the impulse again and turns his head to kiss the rough pad of Hannibal’s fingertip.

Will opens his eyes, and heat smoulders ashed-over orange between them. He knows how easy it would be to fan it to life, full-blown flames licking up his spine. They’ve been awake over twenty four hours now at this point, the adrenaline has long given over to bone-deep exhaustion, and they are neither of them young men any longer. 

“Later,” he promises. “We can talk about it later.” He takes Hannibal’s hand in his own, lacing together their fingers, and tugs him in for another kiss. Despite the growing familiarity of Hannibal’s mouth, there is still a thrill every time their lips meet. 

Hannibal sways unsteadily and Will breaks the kiss with a grunt. “Go to bed.” He gives Hannibal a shove towards the door.

The shower stall beckons, but Will is already halfway to sleep on his feet. He settles for swiping the scratches on his neck with antibiotic soap and slapping a bandage over it. Honestly he wouldn’t even bother with that, except he knows he’d never hear the end of it from Hannibal about the germs under people’s nails.

In their bedroom, the morning light has grown warm spilling across the sheets. Will snaps the curtains closed and turns to find Hannibal has already climbed into bed. Will slides in and bites his lip on a groan; the sheets are deliciously cool on his bare skin. Hannibal immediately attaches himself at Will’s side, all his soft, vulnerable places pressing into all of Will’s, a wall of heat.

Once the nightmares would have plagued him, and he would have done whatever he could to avoid sleep. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t fight off sleep any longer, but there is nothing behind his eyelids but the swirling darkness and the sound of rushing water. Will wades in, and allows the current to drag him under.


End file.
